Habib
by somewhere.somethingincredible
Summary: Sherlock needs accomplished bellydancers to aid him in a case. Joan Watson is happy to help him. Sherlock/Girl!John.
1. Chapter 1

The smoke from the hookahs and incense is making Sherlock dizzy. He shakes his head to clear it and shifts about on his cushion. There is only so many ways to fold his limbs into a comfortable position beneath their ludicrously low table, and having Lestrade sitting beside him limits approximately eight of them. Everything in this place makes Sherlock want to duck his head; the ceiling is entirely swathed in gauzy scarlet, purple and gold fabric, and metal lamps cast irregular shadows from where they hang.

The room is not well ventilated. It is underground, dimly lit, and the club is as exclusive as it is smoky. Wealthy men jockey for invitations into the Turkish-themed club, and behind the closed doors that branch off the main hall any vice can be satisfied. Mycroft had gotten them in without trouble, and Sherlock shudders to imagine how he went about that. He finds it best not to dwell on potentially scarring trains of thought, though, and distracts himself with a sip of tea. Sherlock makes a face: the concoction in the tiny, delicately painted glass cup is cloyingly sweet and far too minty. He prefers the way Joan makes tea, just this side of bitter with a hint of honey. The thought of Joan makes him purse his lips and scowl. This is a bad idea.

"So, why did you need Joan and Molly for this, again?" Lestrade murmurs, leaning against Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't like the look of this place. It's _too_ posh, you know something's going on here."

"Of course _something_ is going on, Lestrade, we are in a 'den of iniquity', as my brother so charmingly put it," Sherlock hisses back. He's on edge, though he won't let himself think of why. It throws a wrench in the works and Sherlock has always been of the opinion that if he ignores a problem long enough, it will go away. "The way this establishment is set up is deliberate: if a group does not wish to be observed, they book a booth. The booths can see the stage, but are shielded from the rest of the patrons by those curtains." Sherlock subtly indicates the two booths on either side of the room, blocked from their view by heavy drapes. "The only people who can see everyone are the dancers, and without knowing which booth Everard is in, we cannot apprehend him smoothly. You know as well as I do that if we go snooping through each booth to find him he will notice. This way, Joan and Molly can do a comprehensive sweep of the room and indicate his location to us. We can then take decisive and informed action."

"And we know he's here tonight?"

"A member of my homeless network saw him enter the building about fifteen minutes before we did. According to the assistant of Everard's with whom I spoke, he waits until after the entertainment to retire with his co-conspirators and their benefactors."

"Speaking of which, when are they due to start?" Lestrade asks, squinting at the unlit stage. Sherlock peers at his watch in the gloom.

"Any minute," he replies, and can't help the fritzing jitter of apprehension in his belly. Both Joan and Molly have assured him that they were fully capable of doing what he needed, why is he so anxious about this? They aren't in danger, at least no more than on any other case. True, there is no place for Joan to conceal her handgun in the diaphanous costume Sherlock knows she will have to don, but Joan has proven that she is more than capable of defending herself.

The lights over the patrons dim further and the stage is lit with a combination of red backlight and barely-there blue spotlights. Sherlock can now see the heavy curtain at the back of the rounded, thrust-style stage. The music, which until now had been unobtrusive, stops and for a moment there is utter silence. Slowly, a stringed instrument (probably a _santur,_ but Sherlock won't rule out the _quanun_) and accordion start up in counterbalance. Two shadowy figures slink onto the stage from opposite sides, and Sherlock's pulse skips in his chest. The feminine shapes take their poses, and the music winds down to a pause. Sherlock holds his breath.

The lights snap up and the two women are revealed by warm gold light. The music erupts in a frenzy of zills and cymbals and drums, and Joan and Molly start to _move_.

Molly mostly escapes Sherlock's notice, though. All he can see is Joan.

He never imagined that her compact, efficient body could move this way. The filmy blue costume ripples around her frame as she shimmies, and the belt of coins at her waist jingles with the snap of her hips. Joan wears transparent harem pants, and the belt curves down into a deep vee to cover the apex of her legs. She is barefoot, and for long moments Sherlock is mesmerized by the motion of her legs, the shiver of her thighs as she moves with the insistent beat. Sherlock's breath comes shorter as she whirls and he sees that the wide belt isn't _quite_ thick enough at the back to cover the entirety of her buttocks, and he can just make out the lush curve of her arse under the translucent silk.

His gaze travels upwards to rest on her abdomen. There is clear muscle definition there, and he watches the muscles undulate beneath her skin as she tips backwards. It is clear that the military had kept Joan in peak physical condition and most of that remains, but almost a year of Sherlock taking her to the most sought-after eateries in London has softened her physique somewhat. It makes Sherlock ache to run his hands over her smooth skin, now glistening with some sort of shimmering oil, press his fingertips into her soft flesh to feel the hard muscle underneath…

Sherlock realizes where his train of thought is going and fiercely aborts it. He is on a _case_. Distractedly, he reaches for a piece of _lokma_ from the bowl on their table. The gel sticks to his palate and a pistachio gets wedged between two of his teeth. He remembers why he dislikes Turkish delight. When Joan makes a particularly brash gyration with her hips that would send any heterosexual man's mind in one direction and one direction only, Sherlock inhales so sharply that he gets icing sugar up his nose. He foolishly chooses this moment to share a look with Lestrade, but the Inspector just quirks an eyebrow and goes back to watching Molly with a glazed look in his eyes. His cheeks are flushed, as Sherlock imagines his own are, and Lestrade seems to be unaware that his mouth is slightly agape. As Sherlock hurriedly wipes the powdery sugar from his nose, he can almost swear he sees Joan's eyes twinkle as they rest on him for a moment. This is ludicrous; there is no way she could possibly see him, but Sherlock finds himself blushing (_blushing!_ Sherlock Holmes does _not blush_) regardless.

Almost reluctantly, Sherlock returns to gazing at Joan. He tells himself he is watching for her signal indicating which table Everard is sitting at; really, though, he can't pass up the opportunity to watch the lines of her body in the deceptive light.

Joan is doing chest isolations, now, and Sherlock's mouth dries up as he watches the motion. The outfit's shirt is barely more than a brassiere, and Joan's more than ample breasts fill out the beaded, sequined cups. The fringe of beads at the hem of the "shirt" dances as she rotates her ribcage, alternating between curling her chest in on itself and thrusting her bosom forward. Joan's breasts also bear a sheen of oil, and Sherlock fancies that if he were to unclasp the bra and bear their soft weight in his hands, his long fingers would _just_ contain them. He could press up behind her, cup them in his palms and roll her nipples between his fingertips until her head tips back against his shoulder as she moans, loud and all for him.

It is at this point that Sherlock clears his throat and shifts again. To his horror, he finds that his trousers have become abruptly too tight, and heat is curling low in his belly. Sherlock had been mostly unfamiliar with this taut warmth at the base of his abdomen until recently; his adolescence had been mostly spent in the company of books, his chemistry set and Mycroft, none of which were interesting to him, sexually, in the least. He performed a few experiments in university, just to see what all the fuss was about, but privately felt that the same result could be achieved just as well with his own hand and a bottle of lube. It has been over ten years since Sherlock has had even the remotest interest in sex with another person, but in the last six months things have changed dramatically.

After the incident at the Pool, then all the business with Irene Adler, Sherlock had begun to see his unassuming flatmate in another light. When Irene had blatantly flirted with Joan, even going so far as to touch her hair and waist, Sherlock had sat by helplessly as surge after surge of jealous rage boiled in his midsection. He knew Joan was bisexual, and while Sherlock had no interest in anything other than Irene's mind, he could acknowledge that she was a beautiful woman. Joan had blushed at the attention, but other than the pink of her cheeks she'd been mostly nonchalant as she asked if Irene could put something on, please. This had thrown Sherlock for a loop: Joan wasn't prudish about nudity, and she never made any comment when Sherlock loped around the flat in the most minimal of clothing. When Sherlock had followed Joan to Battersea Power Station to find Irene waiting for her there, it had taken all of his not inconsiderable restraint not to burst in and bundle Joan away from the temptress. Ludicrous, of course. Joan could do as she pleased, do _whomever_ she pleased. It hadn't bothered Sherlock as much when Joan had dated that doctor, Sarah, or Jean-Luc, the teacher over Christmas. Or perhaps he simply hadn't wanted to acknowledge then that it had bothered him.

Sherlock has acknowledged that the way he feels about Joan is not the way flatmates typically feel about each other. He desires her; he wants to know her in every way, familiarize himself with every facet of the anomaly that is Joan Watson. He wants to map her skin, her scars, her curves with his fingers, his mouth, his whole body. Sherlock wishes to catalogue every sound she makes, whether it be in amusement or derision or ecstasy; he wants to know how she sounds when he touches her thighs, or when he brings her to orgasm with his mouth, or when he fucks her until they're both desperate and sweating. In the past three months, he has spent almost every free evening laid up in bed for sometimes an hour, tugging furiously on his hard cock and imagining Joan's hips, her breasts, her mouth… Needless to say, Sherlock has been rather in a quandary. Joan is elated; she believes he is in there sleeping, and for him to finally have a semi-regular sleeping schedule gives her one less thing to worry about. What she doesn't know is that Sherlock is quiet because he is pressing his hand over his mouth while he comes, for fear of summoning her to his room when he moans out her name during climax.

So seeing Joan, mostly unclothed and shimmying around on a stage, isn't helping matters.

He distracts himself by watching her bangles. The tin circlets of metal around each wrist jangle as she moves her arms and twists her hands in graceful figure-eights. Intermittently, they catch the light and Joan's solid, serviceable wrists sparkle like the sun glinting off a choppy sea.

Sherlock makes himself look at her face. Joan's features are set in an expression of concentration, and her slim lips curve upward in a slight smile. There is glitter along the line of each of her cheekbones, and each of her deep blue eyes is lined heavily with kohl. Her long, wavy brown hair tumbles loose down her back, and to see it out of her customary French braid is a bit dizzying for Sherlock. It gleams like a sheaf of gold thread under the warm yellow of the lights. Knowing full well that most of the population would deem this thought "creepy", Sherlock wonders nevertheless what her hair smells like. Logically, it probably smells like the mint shampoo that sits beside Sherlock's in their shower. He wonders if it smells like incense, now.

The sway of Joan's hips to the rhythm of the dulcimer melody and the clinking of the zills is hypnotizing. Sherlock swallows convulsively and his gaze darts to the men at the other tables. They are enthralled, and Sherlock even thinks he sees one man drooling openly. To be able to watch Joan's body move like this, unhindered, is something Sherlock has dearly craved but never viably expected. Joan is a self-actualized woman, with a strong appreciation for the value of emotions, both in herself and prospective romantic partners. Sherlock does fine as a flatmate and friend, but he doubts that she would want a self-diagnosed sociopath as a lover (though recently, he has had cause to re-evaluate that diagnosis). Especially not one who looks like a "pasty, pre-pubescent alien", according to one less than complimentary critic.

If Sherlock's honest, he'll admit to not paying attention when Molly starts making increasingly agitated hair flicks in his direction. Then again, Sherlock Holmes is not an honest man. He therefore will insist in the future that he was simply waiting for the right moment to apprehend Everard.

The music winds down, and Sherlock realizes that Molly was gesturing to the outside booth on stage left. Reluctantly, Sherlock tears his eyes away from Joan's body and unfolds himself from his cramped seated position. He retrieves his coat, shrugs it on and extricates himself from their table. As is customary in this establishment, Molly and Joan step down from the stage to mingle with the guests. Sherlock and Lestrade's plan is to arrest Everard, then take the girls out with them when they lead Everard to the police van that awaits them outside.

Needless to say, nothing goes according to plan.


	2. Shukran

As Sherlock walks past where Joan and Molly are now lounging with some of the patrons, spread out on cushions like the indolent queens they resemble, he overhears a snatch of the conversation.

"… God, do you know what it did to us, watching you dance? I'm very much hoping that your evening is… open, shall we say. Shall I discuss procuring some of your time with the manager?"

Sherlock's head whips around and he catches the culprit in his sights. The middle-aged Scotsman is talking to Joan, running a bold finger along the strap of her top, and his words are said so close to her that they ruffle the wisps of hair that frame her face.

Another man moves in behind her on the cushions. He is heavy-set, swarthy, and sweating, with a mess of unruly, greasy black curls. He puts a hand on her waist, perilously low.

"I make you... wife, of me. My three wifes, they shall like you."

All it takes is the look of alarm of Joan's face for Sherlock to abort the plan and veer off towards her. It is around this time that Everard and his compatriots pull back the curtains around their booth, clearly with the intent of engaging with Molly and Joan. They spot Sherlock and Lestrade, and against all odds, recognize them for what they are. Guns and knives are drawn as the four men prepare to defend themselves, Lestrade is extricating his pistol from his shoulder holster, and all hell threatens to break loose. The men accompanying Everard are gesticulating with their firearms, uttering threats into the cloying air as the rest of the patrons scramble to get out of the room.

Then, of course, things get unutterably worse.

Joan decides it is her responsibility to place herself right into the line of fire.

Everyone stops moving. Everard and his men look puzzled, and Lestrade looks positively gobsmacked. Sherlock just knows his eyes must be bugging out of his head, and he feels like all of his thoughts have fallen together into a great jumbled mess. He is used to seeing Joan with firearms pointed at her, but she is almost always similarly armed and entirely prepared for the necessary risk. This risk is most certainly _not _necessary, and Sherlock opens his mouth to tell her so.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, there's really no need for that here," Joan purrs, sidling towards Everard with an uncharacteristically coy smile. "There are so many… pleasurable alternatives to spending the evening killing each other, don't you think?" She is close enough to direct this suggestively at Everard. "So many other activities to engage in, hmm?"

Everard is struck dumb. If staying to watch the performers is a regular habit of his, then clearly watching women dance is something he enjoys; for one to approach him so overtly, even if he subconsciously knows it is a ploy to avoid violence, his interest will be at least piqued. Joan is not a traditionally beautiful woman, but she has a sort of magnetism that makes her very difficult to ignore. According to one of her Army mates, Willow Murray, who confided in Sherlock whilst exceptionally drunk at one of Joan's pub nights, Joan had earned the moniker "Three-Continents Watson" not for her widespread sexual experiences, but for the trail of pining men she'd left behind her. From trysts in Egypt during Joan's Gap year, to the men who'd fallen hard for her in Army fatigues and a bulletproof vest, to her undeniable chemistry with the men and women of London, Joan certainly is a force to be reckoned with. Sherlock is intimately familiar with this phenomenon by now, and though at the time all he'd felt was oily rage that all these men and women had touched _his_ Joan, had loved her, he later realized that he didn't fault them for falling for her. It seems like a mostly unavoidable outcome.

Sherlock is about three shallow breaths away from literally shaking with rage and protective _instinct_ (good God, he _hates_ it, this biological imperative to shelter her that comes with the attraction he feels, except really, deep down, he really can't hate it at all). Lestrade's gaze is flicking almost comically fast between Sherlock's enraged expression, Joan's falsely beguiling simper and the very real weapons still pointed in their direction. It's like he doesn't know where the real liability is anymore, and Sherlock doesn't blame him.

"Well then," says Everard intelligently, allowing his gaze to run across Joan's bare skin with a small, lascivious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It'd be my pleasure." He moves closer and klaxons start to go off in Sherlock's head. There is blood rushing in his ears and the knot in his belly is writhing like an enraged mink. Everard places a bold hand against the fringe of beads at the hem, runs a finger through the strands and up, through the valley between her breasts and along the edge of the cup.

Sherlock sees scarlet.

He lunges forward without a clear plan in mind, which is a bit new, but Joan has him beat. She latches onto Everard's wrist, twists it viciously, then slams her knee into his crotch. She follows this with an uppercut to his jaw and Everard drops like a stone. His compatriots blink owlishly for a moment.

"Army," Joan says with a shrug.

Everard's men aren't stunned into inaction for long. Luckily, during Joan's distraction Lestrade had the wherewithal to call for backup, and Sherlock, Joan and Lestrade now have a bit more muscle on their side. They grapple with the other men, Molly even gets her two cents in, clubbing the largest of Everards men with a heavy copper censer.

Everard's small force doesn't stand a chance. Between Joan's well-developed penchant for bar-brawling, Lestrade brutal copper's strength, their backup and Sherlock's devastating, efficient command of martial arts, they cut the men down in very little time. And if Sherlock delivers a merciless kick to Everard's prone body during the scuffle (really, it could have easily been an accident that Sherlock's foot had slammed into the vicinity of Everard's kidney), well, no-one has to know.

Once Lestrade and his backup have bundled the felons away into the waiting van, he comes to find Sherlock, Joan and Molly. They are waiting just inside the doors.

"Well, as usual, we'll need your statements, but it can wait until morning. I'm well knackered," Lestrade says, scrubbing a hand through his already tousled hair. His cheeks look oddly pink, and Sherlock knows it isn't from the chill outdoors. "Uh, Molls, do you need a ride home?"

"Er, yeah, actually!" she pipes up, and a blush spreads across her face and down her exposed throat. "If it's not too much trouble…" Lestrade silences her with a little dismissive wave. He shrugs off the jacket he'd donned while dealing with the arrests and tucks it around her small shoulders.

"Tomorrow, yeah? Nine AM?" Lestrade tosses over his shoulder as he leads Molly away to the lone police car that has been left for his use.

"Yes, fine," Sherlock says distractedly. He's only just realized that Joan is shivering faintly; the entrance hall is not insulated and draughty, and she is still only clad in the barest scraps of beading and silk.

"Here," Sherlock says, wriggling out of his greatcoat and shoving it in her direction. "You're of no use when you've a cold, you complain about it constantly."

Joan gives him an odd look but doesn't hesitate to wrap herself up in the fabric, still warm from Sherlock's body heat. Belatedly, Sherlock realizes that giving away the coat wasn't the brightest plan. His suit jacket is nowhere near long enough to cover his crotch, where he's still half-hard as a result of watching Joan dance and, now, adrenaline. He hopes, rather frantically, that she doesn't notice.

She doesn't. They catch a cab.

* * *

><p>Review, if it strikes your fancy!<p> 


	3. Inshallah

"Where did you learn to bellydance?" Sherlock finds himself asking as the cab trundles towards Baker Street.

"Turkey," Joan answers with a far-off look on her face. "Spent a semester of uni abroad, for some reason Turkey appealed. I met a man there, he told me I looked like I'd be good at it, so I thought hell, why not."

Sherlock purses his lips and envisions a sleazy Turkish man leering at Joan. It doesn't help the anger and jealousy that still seethes in his gut after Everard's behaviour.

"Hmm," is the only answer he gives. Joan shoots him an odd look, shifts in her seat a bit, and draws the coat closer around herself.

"What did you think?" Joan inquires after another few blocks.

"Of what?" Sherlock knows she can tell he's playing dumb. She reads him far too easily, these days.

"Of my dancing! I mean, it's been a while since I've done it, did I live up to your fiendishly high expectations?"

_Oh God, yes._ "It was passable. It fooled Everard, that's all that really matters, I suppose." Joan gets an indignant look on her face.

"Well, as long as it did the trick," she bites out. Sherlock doesn't understand what he'd said wrong. It was the closest thing to a compliment he could pay, what did she expect? For him to fall all over himself praising her dancing and feminine wiles in the most poetic language his tongue can muster? Well, he'd honestly like to, but he's sure he would make an absolute mess of it and that would put her off, so he restrains himself. The rest of the cab ride is spent in silence.

Upon reaching Baker Street, Sherlock tosses the fare to the cabbie and gets out of the vehicle without a backwards glance. All he wants is to shower, get the stink of incense out of his hair, and retire to bed, most probably to have a good hard wank. He takes the stairs two at a time, already unbuttoning his suit jacket, and hears Joan padding quickly behind him. Guilt swoops through him as he realizes that she's still barefoot.

He's dropping his jacket onto the back of his chair as he passes through the living room when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder. He turns to see Joan smiling tentatively at him.

"What, no post-case Chinese? I can just change and we can…" Joan starts to take off Sherlock's coat.

"No, I don't want a sodding Chinese!" Sherlock – well, okay, he snarls it a little. Joan steps back, a look of guarded confusion on her face. Sherlock feels bad immediately, but he's not sure if he can handle an entire hour or so more of looking at Joan with _doing_ something about it. Besides, she is still clutching his coat, and it reminds him that it probably smells like her around the collar now. A few days of exquisite torture heaped on top of all the rest, then. He scowls.

"What is the matter with you?" she asks, as well she should. Sherlock is all over the place, and he knows he probably looks rather mad. He moves to retreat to his room without answering, but Joan moves to block his path. She looks up at him with that defiant, stubborn expression he's come to love. He feels his expression soften somewhat under her scrutiny, and hers changes accordingly. "What's wrong?"

He will not give in. She's so close, he can almost feel her body heat, but to act on the impulse that rages through his nervous system would be a betrayal of their friendship, of _her_, and Sherlock rather suspects she only moved in with him because of that stupid "married to my work" line he'd spouted that first night. He wasn't a threat. It made Sherlock's throat knot up, but he'd rather have her here, and keep his secret, than put everything on the table and watch her leave.

"I am fine," he grits out between clenched teeth, and even as he says it he knows she isn't buying it. "I'm absolutely fine."

"Bullshit." Damn. Called out.

"Leave it, Joan."

"Sherlock," she says, and her voice is gentle. "Are you hurt? Did one of them actually get a hit in?"

One of the men had delivered a rather nasty punch to the lower part of Sherlock's back, and he'd likely feel it in the morning, but he isn't about to tell Joan this. It isn't threatening to his overall health, and she worries about his well-being enough as it is. She continues to look at him, blue eyes full of concern and a hint of annoyance, like she expects Sherlock to tell her if he is injured. He never has before, why should he break their streak of her noticing eventually and reprimanding him soundly?

"No, I'm quite fine." Other than my rather insistent erection, Sherlock thinks, and you're going to notice it any moment now, so if you would kindly allow me to pass and take care of it, I would be much obliged.

"Sherlock..." Joan just shakes her head and breaks his gaze. When she looks back at him there is resignation in her expression, and her shoulders slump minutely.

"Fine, fine," she says, backing out of his way with her hands raised in surrender. Sherlock is loathe to have her further away from himself but acknowledges privately that it is for the best. Joan's proximity is driving him to distraction, and his iron hold on his own libido is slipping fast.

Sherlock moves to flee past her. At his doorway, he gets an unanticipated stab of guilt. He was rude. Usually he likes to be rude, prefers it, but he suspects his behaviour may have alienated Joan, at least temporarily. He stops, turns.


	4. Aashiq

*is dead* Oh God, what is this. Very mature, I suppose.

* * *

><p>They're both trembling. This kiss is so different from the impulsive, catalytic touch they had shared moments ago that it makes Sherlock's head spin. Joan opens her mouth in a sigh and Sherlock takes advantage, flickering his tongue out to meet hers. Joan gasps and slips her arms up around Sherlock to press her hands firmly against the base of his shoulder blades. He shudders and slides a hand into her hair. Sherlock is fully hard again now, hot and aching for her, and the warm press of their bodies is driving him <em>mad<em>.

Joan pulls away with a final, tiny suck on Sherlock's full lower lip. He chases her mouth, wanting more, _always_ wanting more from Joan, but she leans back into his hand in her hair, away from his eager lips. She regards him, looking remarkably calm for someone with massive pupils, high colour on her cheeks and lips that are kiss-bitten red.

"Sherlock, I…" she begins, and falters. Sherlock needs to hear what she has to say, because he's too terrified to say it himself. He starts kneading slow circles into her scalp with the pads of his fingers in silent encouragement and reassurance. "This sort of thing isn't casual for me, anymore. I'm looking for more than just a shag. So if this is just, I dunno, some kind of experiment or something…" She looks down and swallows, looking far too glum for someone who, moments ago, had been engaging in some rather excellent snogging.

Sherlock finds that, now, after hearing Joan's words, he has the courage to speak.

"I was never interested in anything casual with you, Joan," he breathes, pressing gently on the back of her skull to bring her towards him again. He leans in to whisper into her ear. "Besides, I've explored the idea of casual, impersonal sex. It never appealed. What I am _very_ interested in exploring just now…" At this, Sherlock pauses to run a finger down the ridges of Joan's cervical vertebrae. He can feel the fine hair under his fingertip stand on end. "Is how making love to someone I have formed a deep emotional connection with might affect the results."

He can feel Joan's breathing quicken. Her hands clench in the back of his shirt and she exhales a ragged breath. Slowly, like she's moving through sweet, heavy molasses, Joan tilts her head to press her lips against the underside of Sherlock's jaw and suck a kiss into the skin. Sherlock imagines she can feel his thundering heartbeat from there, and he tips his head the tiniest fraction to allow her more space. He can feel her huff a laugh against his skin.

"God, you've no idea, Sherlock," she breathes against his skin between kisses. "How long I've just _stared_, wanting to do this, to be able to take you apart and watch that mask of yours slip…" She laves his pulse point with the flat of her tongue and Sherlock jerks. This all feels damnably one-sided right now but he can't bring himself to object as her hands wander across his back, tug up the tails of his shirt and burrow beneath to press against the sensitive skin at the small of his back. He feels he should retaliate, so with the steady inexorable pressure with which one would pull the trigger of a gun, he turns them and pushes Joan into the wall with a single solid shove of his body.

With the hand that's still curled around Joan's cheek, he tips her face up again to catch her lips with his own in a hot, messy kiss. His desperation is showing, surely, but he wants it to, wants Joan to know how crazy and elated she makes him, how just her presence fills him to the brim with desire.

"Please, Sherlock, I want…" she mumbles against his lips, and he can feel her shape the words.

"_Yes_, anything. Everything." Sherlock hasn't the inclination to refuse her a single thing, at this point. Dimly, he realizes that they are moving very quickly, at least according to society's ridiculous standards. As soon as Sherlock has this thought, however, he dismisses it. Joan shot a man for Sherlock after knowing him only a day. It's been established by now that they rather defy expectations. With this thought skidding through Sherlock's brain, he recaptures Joan's lips for a fierce, brief kiss before wrenching away and taking her hand.

They thwart themselves several times before actually reaching Sherlock's bed. Once because Sherlock simply has to take the opportunity to shove Joan up against his bedroom door once they're inside and snog her senseless. He also wants the ridiculous bellydance getup gone, now. Other men's eyes have roved over that gaudy fabric tonight, and Sherlock just wants _Joan_, spread out naked, displaying skin just for him. He rather hopes that the sight of Joan laid bare will be _only_ for him from now on, but he doesn't wish to get ahead of himself. With clever fingers, he reaches behind Joan to unhook the top, and there is a flurry of arms and swishing beads as together they scramble to get it off. Once it has been dumped to the floor, Sherlock presses his advantage, sweeping his hands across the bared expanse of her back before brushing his thumbs against the soft underside of her breasts. He gets a sudden flash of one the fantasies he'd had whilst at the club, and he pulls Joan away from the door. She's managed to undo the buttons of his purple shirt and as Sherlock pulls them towards his bed, she tugs the shirt open and off one of his shoulders. Sherlock can't resist any longer; he spins her roughly and tugs her against his bare chest, skimming his hands up her abdomen to cup her breasts firmly in his palms. She _does_ moan aloud, as he'd imagined, and pushes her chest forward as Sherlock gently rubs her dusky, pebbled nipples between thumb and forefinger. The tickle of her loose, wavy hair against Sherlock's bare shoulder as she tips her head back to lean against him makes his heart clench in unexpected ways. When she moves up onto her tiptoes and presses the warm flesh of her arse against Sherlock's groin, his hips buck forward and he groans her name.

"You're wearing too many clothes," she murmurs, freeing herself from his hands and twisting so she can get her hands on the offending garments. His shirt is tossed to the floorboards, and Joan sets to work on his belt after running appreciative hands down the lines of his chest and belly. Sherlock pushes Joan's hair off her left shoulder while she does this and leans down to kiss and mouth at her scar. It isn't as large as he'd imagined, and the thick strap of the top had mostly covered the span of it. Soon enough, though, Joan is undoing his trousers and shoving them downwards, and Sherlock just _has_ to kiss her gasping mouth. He works his trousers the rest of the way off and kicks them away, leaving him clad only in a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. Joan licks her lips and goes for them, but Sherlock gingerly catches her wrists.

"Tit for tat, darling," he rumbles into her ear, and reaches for her waist. Before he can reach the fastenings, however, Joan catches him by the shoulders and practically throws him onto the bed. He sprawls in the unmade sheets and watches hungrily as she undoes the coin belt. It clatters to the ground in a hail of fabric and tiny metal disks. Sherlock sucks in a breath. The transparent blue fabric of Joan's harem trousers are next, and soon she is standing before him in nothing but a pair of blue silk knickers. Her expression is confident, but Sherlock had seen her fingers fumble and tremble against the fastenings of her belt.

He reaches for her. She obliges with a smile, coming over to the bed and kneeling astride his hips. Sherlock gets a firm grip on her hip with his left hand, and slips the fingers of his right hand between her legs. The smooth fabric at her crotch is already humid and hot, and when he rubs the heel of his hand against her and toys with the edge of her panties Joan gasps and clutches at his shoulders. Emboldened, Sherlock presses the fabric aside and slips his long middle finger up against where she's wet. It's a teasing touch and he knows it, but to watch her cheeks flush and her brow furrow in frustration is _very_ rewarding. He's so caught up in it, in fact, watching every little reaction play out across her face, that he doesn't notice her insinuating a hand between their bodies to cup his stiff cock through his pants. Sherlock hitches his hips up into the touch and moans, digging his fingers into her hip and buries a finger inside her in retaliation.

"Ahh, _gods_…" Joan grits out. She cants her hips down, and Sherlock is struck by an overpowering urge to _taste_ her. He doesn't resist it, drawing his hand away. Joan looks momentarily confused and a bit put-out in the moment before he tips her to the side and spreads her out across his white sheets. Placing a hand behind her head, he gently lowers her to rest on his pillows and leans in to press a reverent kiss to the corner of her mouth.

This time it's her chasing him as he pulls away too soon. She looks reassured, however, when he gives her a wild grin and starts to slide down her body, placing open-mouthed kisses at random intervals. When he reaches the crest of her hip he pauses to suck a mark against her skin, branding the flesh with a livid red mark in the shape of his mouth. She arches up against him at this and whimpers. When he moves further down the bed and tenderly pushes her legs further apart, she starts to sit up.

"What are you doing all the way down there?" she asks with a broad, fond smile. "Get back up here."

"I plan to make you come using my mouth; I hope this is acceptable," Sherlock says against the warm crease of flesh where her leg and hip meet. He pitches his voice low and knows it has achieved the desired effect when Joan shivers and goosebumps erupt on her skin.

"Entirely," she says in an unsteady voice, and lowers her upper body back to the mattress. Hooking his thumbs under the waistband of her knickers, Sherlock tugs them down her legs and flings them away, baring that last bit of flesh to his eager gaze. He looks up at her, meets her eyes as he bends his head to gently part her with his tongue. Joan shudders and threads her hands into his hair. He sets to work unravelling her, alternating between pressing his tongue right up inside her heat and gently massaging her clit with his lips and the flat of his tongue. It sends shivery pulses of arousal through Sherlock to watch Joan slowly shaking apart under his attentions, and he can't stop himself from making little, aborted thrusts against the bed. It's nowhere near enough, especially as the sensation is dulled by his briefs, but he wants to watch Joan succumb first, needs to be able to observe with a marginally objective mind. He needs to remember this, needs to store it away in the most secret, protected place in his hard drive and hold onto it forever. Just in case.

When she's keening and spreading her legs so wide it's sure to hurt, Sherlock pushes two slender fingers into her. She's so slick by now that they go in easily, and Joan cries out brokenly, a mangled version of Sherlock's name. Crooking his fingers, Sherlock looks up and locks eyes with her as he slides his tongue firmly against her clit.

Joan falls to pieces. One of her hands clamps down on his shoulder and the other knots in his hair as her spine bows and she contracts around Sherlock's fingers. She makes these sounds that seems hardwired to Sherlock's cock, little breathy moans and hitching gasps. As the tension in her body starts to unwind and she relaxes into the sheets, Sherlock extricates his fingers. He crawls up to blanket her body with his and steal a languorous kiss. She presses her tongue to his between panting breaths as she quakes with aftershocks. It seems a miracle to Sherlock, to be able to clutch Joan in his arms as she trembles through the aftermath of the orgasm he gave her.

"Sherlock, _Sherlock_," she's saying against him, sounding dazed. It's all he can do not to just let all these pesky, unwelcome, distracting sentiments pour out in stumbling words against her cheek. Instead, he pushes her down into the mattress with the full length of his body, hoping that the press of his skin can say everything his words can't.

"C'mon, Sherlock," Joan says, sliding a hand down to one of Sherlock's slim hips and yanking at the fabric she finds there. "Get on with it, c'mon, want you _in_ me." It's like her hands don't quite know what they want to do, first tugging at his briefs to clarify her intentions, then skating over the muscles of his back, then gripping at his still-clothed arse to pull him closer between her spread thighs. Sherlock's crotch presses against the hot, damp apex of her legs and he groans, lolling his head to the side to pant into her hair. She smells like mint and incense and tea and it feels like home, for all that Sherlock's skin is on fire.

"I… I don't have condoms," he blurts out, suddenly horrified at his own lack of foresight. Joan just gives him an indulgent smile.

"In my bag. I left it on the kitchen table, didn't take it to the club with us. Side pocket, you should find some." She gives him a playful shove. "Go!"

Sherlock reluctantly clambers off the bed and hurries into the kitchen on unsteady legs. His hands shake against the zipper of Joan's bag as he roots in the side pocket. Fishing out two of the foil packets he discovers there, he returns to the bedroom as fast as humanly possible.


	5. Sa'eeda

So, I finished it! Wow and all that. Am very seriously considering a sequel as a fill for another prompt on the meme, will post it here as well, if you're interesting keep checking my account. If I take it on, it should be up in the next few weeks. Er, enjoy?

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><p>Sherlock staggers back into his room and the sight of Joan, curled up and waiting for him, steals his breath. She has tucked one knee up and is resting her chin upon it, staring at Sherlock. He crosses the room and clambers up onto the bed, just brushing her toes with the edge of his knee. He watches her eyes rove across his skin, and he's never felt so exposed. People have told Sherlock in the past that his gaze makes them feel naked sometimes; well, now he knows exactly how that feels. Joan can see everything, from the knife scar just below his ribs to the small, faded track marks on the otherwise smooth skin of his inner arms, testaments to years as an unmoored youth trying to dampen his brilliance for the sake of his own sanity. He'd found a tether in his work, years ago, but now he thinks that maybe there might be safe harbour to be found in the steady blue gaze that's now slowly stripping back all his layers.<p>

"Joan," he says, because really, what else can he say?

In response she unfurls her body and extends a hand to tangle it in Sherlock's hair. He lurches forward, closes the distance between them and seals their lips together. Joan eagerly pulls him in and reclines, letting him sink down over her once again. They kiss for a few minutes, just like this, wrapped up in each other and savouring the slow burn of anticipation. Sherlock has dropped the condoms onto the bedspread and after a short while one of his knees brushes it. It crinkles between his skin and the fabric and reminds Sherlock, viscerally, why he had left the bedroom at all.

Joan seems to have the same idea. As soon as she hears Sherlock nudge the small foil packet she resumes tugging at Sherlock's only remaining article of clothing. He hastens to help her remove his pants, and when they're gone he sits up and fumbles for the condom. Joan levers herself up off of Sherlock's pillows and gently plucks the packet from his uncharacteristically shaking fingers. Her fingers are perfectly, tellingly steady as they tear open the packet and she reaches over to roll it on. She does so with a wicked grin and a firm grip, slowly applying the condom to Sherlock's length in a way that makes his breath hiss out through clenched teeth. He barely waits until she's finished to slide his arms around her and reposition them so she's sitting in his lap. In this position they're at eye level with each other, so Sherlock swallows and meets her gaze. Joan's blue eyes are fogged with desire and she's panting; Sherlock has never seen anything as amazing as this. Without looking away from Sherlock, Joan rises up and cants her hips. As she slowly lowers herself down onto his cock, Sherlock's breath starts coming in sharp little huffs and he grits out her name over and over. Inside, she's hot and tight and Sherlock's vision blurs a bit at the edges when she's finally pressed up flush against him.

"Ah, Christ…" she breathes, eyes now flicking across Sherlock's face as though she needs to memorize him. "Sher… Sherlock. God, I need to-…" She cuts herself off by kissing him, slanting her mouth across his in an uncoordinated, hot smear of lips and teeth and tongue. Sherlock can't help himself now. He kicks his hips up, driving himself even deeper into her heat. They both moan and Joan starts to _move_, a slow tidal writhe of her hips that's barely motion but is more than enough to make Sherlock break the kiss to throw his head back and groan. It's like she's replicating the gyrations of her dance, except this time it's _against _him, _around_ him. The thought makes Sherlock's abdominal muscles tighten with possessive lust. Joan drops her head to rest at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and she grips his biceps hard enough that he can feel her fingernails digging into his skin. Skimming his hands down to her hips, he takes hold.

"_Do it_," she breathes against his neck. "Fuck me, Sherlock, come on."

A heavy, deep moan rumbles through Sherlock's chest, unchecked, as he does just that. She feels so good, and the combined motion of their bodies is tearing Sherlock inexorably to pieces. He hitches his hips up against her as she rocks down to meet him.

"Joan, _ah_," is all he's able to articulate. He won't last, not as long as he wants to. It's been years and years, and he's buried to the hilt inside _Joan_, which makes it even sweeter. Wanting to make it as good for her as possible he drops his head and sucks at her throat, leaving blooms of red that will show above her collar. She whimpers, the sound high and threadbare. It only spurs him further towards the edge, and he feels he should warn her.

"_Ah_, Joan, I won't… I'm not. It's been…"

"Shh, it's alright," she says, lifting her head. She stills and leans back enough that he has to look her in the face. Unhooking one of her hands from around his arm, she smoothes sweat-slick curls gently off his brow. "You'll have ages to prove your incredible stamina. For tonight, I just want to know how you look when you come inside me."

Sherlock's mind short-circuits. His thoughts power down and his senses take over. Wrapping one arm around Joan's ribcage and cupping his other hand at the base of Joan's skull, he lays her on her back and sinks back in. It drives a shaky sound from his lungs.

The rest is biological imperative. Sherlock privately takes back any comments he's made about his body being transport; in fact, his body seems to be a livewire, shooting sparks and warmth between his brain and his cock. Joan is arching her back and holding him to her, and he can feel the softness of her breasts where they rub against his chest. Sherlock can't help but cry out as the jittery heat blooms through his flesh. He's chasing the edge now, and the sounds Joan is making are fuel to his flame. When he makes a particularly vigorous swivel with his hips and grinds his pelvis into hers she shouts and clenches down around him.

It flings him over. He ratchets his head down to muffle his own cries and gasps against her lips, even as she's riding the tail end of her own climax. Sherlock feels like he is dying, just a little bit. He chokes out Joan's name and has to bite back the addition of "love you", coming in huge shuddery pulses and quaking with the force of it all.

Sherlock Holmes is very rarely lost for words. But as he trembles in the wake of a mind-altering orgasm, pressed against the most singular woman he has ever met, Sherlock can't seem to think of any words that might suit the situation. Other than the ones he's forcing himself not to say, of course.

"Sherlock," Joan murmurs. "Sherlock, not that I'm uncomfortable, but at some point you may have to move." Her voice is a bit unsteady.

He clears his throat. "Of course, my apologies," he replies in a hoarse voice, reaching down to grip the condom as he gingerly pulls out. Disposing of it in the wastebasket beside the bed, Sherlock rolls back over and finds himself pinned by a luminous blue gaze.

"That was… amazing." Joan's expression is one of warmth and satiation and something else, something complicated and fond and almost apologetic. She smiles. "Do you want me to stay?"

It would be idiotic of Sherlock not to kiss her. She hums against him and he can feel the upwards curl of her mouth.

"Shower first," he says. "You smell like a souk."

That wasn't what he meant to say at all, but judging by how Joan's grin widens, it is acceptable.

They tumble back into Sherlock's bed after their shared shower, too exhausted to do anything further. They both smell of mint shampoo; Sherlock had insisted upon working the suds through Joan's soaked hair, and the noises of contentment she made were almost enough to make Sherlock feel up for a second round. Pulling the covers over them, Sherlock hauls Joan against him and fits their bare bodies together. They're still damp, but the room is warm and Sherlock isn't about to pass up an opportunity to have Joan's skin against his. She sighs and tucks her head under his chin.

"You meant it, yeah? What you said about… you know, wanting more than just a casual shag," Joan says into his clavicle. "It wasn't just about my dancing, or… I dunno. I mean, I saw you watching me dance, and I wondered if maybe it was just about that."

Sherlock sleeks a hand down her back. "I meant every word and more," he says. "If you wish to continue this line of questioning, please reserve your queries until morning. As you may have noticed, I had some rather excellent sex this evening. It seems that emotional bonds do have a direct bearing on the success of sexual endeavours. Now, go to sleep." He pauses. "I will be here in the morning."

They settle in. Joan's breathing evens out, but Sherlock can't stop his mind now that it has rebooted. He used to think that he could have lived out the rest of his life without all this, on his own with his work. Before Joan, his life had stretched out before him, full of intrigues and danger and probably cut short by one failing or another. But now that he has these complicating chemicals commonly interpreted as the symptoms of love coursing though his grey matter, Sherlock can almost watch as his path shifts. His ideal future, now, contains much the same things as before: work and danger. Now, though, he wants it to also contain a baffling, wonderful, smiling woman at his side and in his bed, until his plans peter out into uncertainty and further, to old age and death. He envisions her, expressive face crumpled up with age and years of grinning at him, sitting on the porch waiting for him to come back from tending bees. He wants her to be the last thing he sees every night before sleep. He never wants another man or woman to touch her, ever again. He tightens his hold on her sleeping form and buries his nose in her damp hair. In this small, private moment, Sherlock allows himself a tiny bit of sentimentality. Now that he has Joan, he doesn't intend to let her go unless she tells him to. Some people might call this insanity so early in the game.

But then again, Sherlock is no stranger to being called crazy.

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><p>I'm really sorry for how sappy and porny this got, it wasn't supposed to be this long, I promise. Hope you enjoyed, if you did, drop me a review and let me know! And thank you to everyone who has reviewed and added me to various Story Alert and Favorite lists! Each one makes my day!<p> 


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